


It Breathes

by Ambrosia29



Category: Original Work
Genre: Baking, Blood, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Demons, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 20:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7329883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia29/pseuds/Ambrosia29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Princess, alone in her castle on a rainy night, visits the last rose in her garden and in her loneliness, decides to make a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Breathes

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out the works of Gordon Laite for the artistic style I thought of while writing this.

On one of the darkest days that Fair-weather Castle had seen in many-a-year, the sky had turned black and rain poured down like spilled coffee from an upturned vessel.

The rains beat at the high windows and for a moment, Saundrelline wondered if the glass might break, such was the force of the gale outside. It howled through the mountains and she imagined there were demons riding the wind. They would be her closest companions until they, too were gone.

The servants had long gone with the rest of the family, but she had elected to remain behind.

She was allowed, you see.

She had always been allowed everything.

Which was why she’d been allowed to stay.

Looking out at the gardens, now all she could see was the downpour, flooding the remnants of the once resplendent garden. It had been beautiful, once. nothing grew there, now. Nothing had grown anywhere, save for the single rose which was gone, now too.

It had grown on a single stalk in the remaining patch of rosebushes but its color was one she had never see before. One might say it was a red so dark as to appear black, but she had loved it. Seen it. Fed it the only thing that kept it alive: her own blood, from a needle-pricked finger.

It was no dark red but dark blue like the icy heart of a frost-giant, so dark it rivaled the night’s sky and did not glitter but shone with shadows deeper than midnight.

She’d seen it under moonlight, once. A voice had come to her ear, had woken her from a deep sleep amidst the silent tomb-like hallways in the dead of night and beckoned her. So she’d walked, as though still dreaming, to the gardens.

There, amidst the skeletal remaining thorn branches, grew the single stalk of rosebush, topped with the black-blue bud. Except it was a bud no more. It had opened, bloomed under the moonlight which rendered all else pale marble and given the petals the brightest shade of midnight she’d ever seen.

And that was when the howling rain had started.

A voice in her head, her heart, had urged her to take it and run, run! So she had, the voices the only solace for her loneliness she’d heard since they’d all left her alone in the castle.

But now she had the rose.

She clutched the petals close to her breast as she’d ran, not stopping until she was out of breath. The floors here were warmer, somewhat familiar.

The kitchens.

She’d made many-a-meal for herself since everyone had gone. She looked at the petals. They’d bee mussed, turned black with something dark and sticky.

No, not dark. Bright. Bright red.

She looked down and gasped. There, at the front of her gown was a spattering of blood, flowing to her shock, from a cut above her heart. Surely the thorns had pierced it! She looked at the rose longingly as the pain welled up from within her but she dared not let go of her one remaining friend.

An idea occurred to her: she should make it part of herself and keep it forever within her. But how? Bread, whispered the voices, make it into bread. You know what to do.

And so she did.

Having gathered the ingredients for her midnight feast, flour, water warming over the cold fire, sugar and yeast, she realized she had no salt. She brought the rose to her lips and a tear slipped down. She had failed. She would always be alone.

But wait…her tears, the blood now brushed to her lips, they tasted of salt.

She let herself weep and when the tears ran dry with happy thought of her success, she used her blood.

The bread was kneaded in her hands, clawing through the dough as she smashed it repeatedly, gathering more and pouring out her frustrations in the process until she felt empty and peaceful, waiting to be filled.

The petals. She wept again at her next action, pulling the petals one by one from the bloom and it was so luxurious, so heavy with them she felt they sprouted new dark petals in the instant she’d plucked another.

It might have taken minutes. It might have taken hours.

She kneaded the dark pungent mass into the bread until the deep pink dough grew cold.

And she waited.

The wind howled through the halls outside, something did indeed crash and make her jump once but it was only the sound of breaking glass. Nothing further troubled her.

She gazed at the dough in meditation on her future with her new companion and with a small smile, realized it was breathing. Living. 

Something else to fill her days! No more sharp sunlight pouring down fire. No more sickly pale moonlight to hide the stars from her wide gaze. She would have her companion, always. She always got what she wanted.

And it grew. Pulsed. Expanded and contracted and she heard the sounds of it breathing in, out, in like an obscene demon in lustful repose.

It _breathed_.

With a smile, she made a home for it, drew up the fire to make it warm again.

Placed it inside and closed the door, peeking in through the small widow, eager for her friend.

_Where are you_? It said. In and out. In and out went the air, all the air and she opened the door again, frantic to secure its breathing. It sighed. Expanded. Expanded for her, reaching, growing arms and enveloping her in its warm embrace, finally, finally she would never be alone again.

They would wander these empty halls with only each other for company. They could visit the towers and their spires, see he darkest depths of each dungeon cell, entertain the demons on the wind with rain like coffee to drink in the drowned garden.

The door closed behind her as she settled in and held it close. 

She couldn’t wait to be done baking. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea because I was baking bread and was fascinated for a little bit with the appearance it had of nearly breathing as it rose. It made me think of a horror story and this came out after iammydeath made me laugh about it.


End file.
